


Styx

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Mutantstuck [23]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Mutantstuck, ambrose is getting his shit wrecked repeatedly so be aware of that, more character tags will be added as i get to them, torture scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:30:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: His expression hasn't shifted, and you suspect that it won't—you've always been good at keeping a poker face, but this guy's got the added advantage of scarring that's got to limit his range of expression, pale smooth marks that streak across his face and down his throat, shifting to something rougher right above the point where they disappear under the plain white shirt.Seems like the kids've been keeping secrets from Ambrose. Then again, even if he'd been expecting this he might not have been able to guard against it. Anyway, the main question now is if he's going to survive it...and that's looking like a resoundingno.





	1. Chapter 1

You don't remember getting taken. That ain't the _worst_ bit, in the grand scheme of things—this whole situation is a whole new level of fucked, even by _your_ standards—but it's pretty damn bad. Means he planned shit out too fucking well, means you slipped up in a way that's gonna get you killed horribly, you don't know _what_ it means but oh god you wish you did know. 

You wish you remembered. It'd be nice to know how the fuck he got you here, ducktaped to a chair that he had to have stolen from somewhere—short of dentists' waiting rooms and public schools, furniture ain't built to be this uncomfortable. Then again, maybe you're being uncharitable—it's entirely possible that it's just the tape putting you in the amount of pain you're in. Or possibly whatever he drugged you with. You're pretty sure he did drug you—even with the distraction of your discomfort, the _other_ distraction of that fucker standing there watching you like you're a lab rat, you're very aware of the taste in your mouth, chemical sweetness still coating your airways like a thin scum of rotten fruit on a pane of glass. 

God, that's horrible. Worse than waking up the morning after a really bad party. It's probably gonna cost you, but you turn your head and spit out a mouthful of that almost fermented taste anyway. 

When you look back up, he still hasn't moved from his spot, standing there with one hand absently petting at Cal's arm (_how fucking dare he_, your mind keeps trying to whisper, _how dare he, that's mine, that's MINE_) and the other hooked into the pocket of his jeans. His expression hasn't shifted, either, and you suspect that it won't—you've always been good at keeping a poker face, but this guy's got the added advantage of scarring that's _got_ to limit his range of expression, pale smooth marks that streak across his face and down his throat, shifting to something rougher right above the point where they disappear under the plain white shirt. 

(Same shirt you'd pick off a rack to replace the one he took off you while you were out. Worn the same way you would—top button left undone, collar popped up in a way that's guaranteed to make anyone with a lick of sense wince, sleeves cuffed even though they're really not made to be. On him that shows more scarring, back to the smooth streaks instead of the uneven patches that cover his arms. You've got a horrible suspicion that the difference between the two is where he was just burned versus where cloth had to be peeled away from damaged skin. _Fuck._) 

Looking into those goddamn shades is almost impossible to do for more than a couple seconds. Eye contact with Cal is a lot easier; you take a deep breath and focus on noticing the spots where the puppet's been mended. One arm's been completely replaced—the fabric's a near match, but it's aged differently, less obviously faded in the line of the seam. His left eye has to have been repainted, you think—the color's perfect, but the little scrapes Dirk left on it when he was teething are gone. The cap's new, but that's no surprise—you lose the damn thing every few months, why would this fucker be any better at keeping track of it, when he's just you with twelve-odd more years on his back and a fuckton of bad shit left behind him? 

Roxanne's earrings, the little titanium studs she gave you for your twenty-first birthday? They're pinned to Cal's shirt and just barely visible over the fucker's shoulder. If you get out of here alive, you're damn well taking those with you.

(You are probably not getting out of here alive. Even now you're totally aware of that.) 

"Jealous?" 

Funny. His voice doesn't really sound like yours, at least to your ears. You'd like to compare recordings of him and of you, see if the difference you're hearing is real or just in your head. 

"C'mon, copy cat. Cat got your tongue?" He smiles—it's horrible, it's got to hurt, you can see the skin around the scarring flexing wrong, showing stress—and takes three too-fast steps towards you, barking out a short laugh as you reflexively try to jerk away and slam your head against the wall. "What's the matter, scared 'a yourself?" 

How to answer that? Wait, you know. "Fuck you." 

"Narcissist. But we knew that already." 

"Fuck you." 

"Really? You get the chance to talk to the _real_ version of you and that's all you're gonna say?" 

"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck y—" 

_That_ is when he hits you, not a backhand or a bitchslap—not what you'd go for, in other words—but a straight-out punch, sharp and vicious and not pulled at all. Kinda hurts. Kinda really hurts. There's blood in your mouth, but it's not like that's a big issue. You've had worse. 

How blurry your vision gets for a second is irritating, though. Means you have to spend long enough blinking your eyes clear to completely destroy the impact you were hoping to have when you spit out both the words, "Fuck you," and a noticable amount of blood. 

He looks down at the new spots on his shirt. Damn, you didn't realize he was that close. The unnerving smile melts right off his face; as soon as it's gone you realize that you kinda preferred it to the alternative of no emotion at all. Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_— 

You're gonna get hit again. You shouldn't be this scared, not yet. Not when all he's done is hit you once. Jesus, you're gettin' soft. 

But he doesn't hit you. Not yet. What he does is lean down, lean in, put his face maybe six inches from yours like he's using you as a mirror that gives him the image of what he used to be. 

"Say it again." It comes out as low as a whisper, but calling it that doesn't give him enough credit for menace. "Give me a fuckin' reason to see how many hits it takes to put you out. Say it." 

Well. Turns out that even when you know you're probably going to die, you can find a laugh for that dumbass sentence. "You sayin' you need an excuse, _bro_?" 

He bares his teeth. Can't call it a smile; it's way closer to a snarl than any expression a human should be making. "You took my life. Took my _kid_. Seems like all the excuse I need." 

See, there's a lot of shit you could say here. Something about how you didn't take anything—you were given a life when you probably shouldn't have had one (yes, you spent some time researching the ethics of human cloning, until Dirk found out and blocked the results from showing up on your phone, citing mental health reasons)—something about how he lost his right to even call Dave _his_ kind after everything he did to him, something about how he should hunt down Wade if he wants to start shit (that last one is born of pure desire to see Wade take the fucker apart, if you're gonna be honest with yourself)—but there's no way you'd get a full sentence out before he started in on his lil' experiment.

So you go with the one response that you know you'll get to finish. 

"Dave ain't your kid. Fuck you, motherfucker." 

The look on his face—almost helpless fury so strong that it's more terrifying than the rest of this whole clusterfuck combined—feels good. Getting punched again does not. 

God, you wish it only took one punch to knock you out, but you're not that lucky. You count them up to seven—seven is when his fist catches you just above your right eye, shatters something that you're pretty damn sure is delicate and hard to repair even in the best of situations. Half your vision goes red and black, and you don't so much lose count of how many more times he hits you as forget what numbers are for a few seconds, and fail to remember before shit finally goes black.

* * *

Waking up is not on the list of things you expect, but it happens anyway. Unfortunately, the catalyst for your return back to the land of the living—or at least to what looks a hell of a lot like the workroom you used to have back in California, stripped of everything but the shitty green wallpaper and off-colored linoleum flooring—is a nearly apocalyptic crash of pain that starts in your right hand and seems to go all the way up to your chest. 

Trying to roll away from the pain, which is what you do before you even come all the way awake, doesn't do anything other than change the flavor of pain from "crushing" to "twisting" and bring it up a little towards your wrist. You grit your teeth against the sob that wants to come up, force yourself still, and open your eyes. 

"You look like shit," the fucker with the face that'd be yours if Deadpool hadn't set off a homemade bomb almost on top of him informs you, shifting his weight just a little more onto the foot he's got your hand pinned under. God, when the fuck did he start wearing combat boots? _You_ sure as hell haven't done that since...what, fourth grade? "You know why you're not dead yet?" 

Do you? Not really; you're in pain, but not nearly enough for the beating you know he gave you, even if he stopped when you passed out. (You're pretty sure he didn't.) Are you going to tell him you don't remember? Fuck no. 

You open your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself. He gives you that snarling smile again—when you're flat on your back on the floor and he's standing over you, it's orders of magnitude worse—and shifts his foot to center the hell of his boot on your palm, not just pressing but _grinding_. The sound you make in response would be humiliatingly pathetic, if there was any room left in your mind for anything that isn't the pressing question of how many bones he just broke. 

One. None. Please let it be none. You need your hands to be functional enough to choke the life out of this scumbag. 

(Optimistic much, Ambrose?) 

"See, ain't that better?" It's not really a question, but at least he eases off on the pressure a little. Enough that you can shut your mouth around the next choked scream that tries to come out, anyway. "Not like you got anything to say that's worth hearin'." 

For some fucking reason he pauses here. It feels like a trap, so you keep your mouth shut, breathing through your nose and hating how you still can't stop making pathetic little whimpering noises despite that.

"Smart." He crouches down—incidentally shifting his weight off his heel, thank whatever fucking god is listening—and reaches down to wind one hand into your hair, grimacing in a way that you _know_ is theatric. You've never made that face sincerely; this is to prove a point. The way he yanks your head to the side so you have to look at him is part of that point. Either that, or he's just still playing with different ways of hurting you. "God, you look like shit. Can't fuckin' believe I used to look like that." 

You've got one hand free. Is it worth it to hit him with it? 

Nah. You can feel the familiar pressure of a collar around your neck; if you can't access your speed, there's no way you'd even be able to touch him. "I look better'n you ever will, fuckface." 

The hand in your hair tightens in warning. "Careful." 

"What, can't take the truth? See, I fuckin' _knew_ there was something I was better at than you—aa_aah_—" 

You lose the rest of whatever the hell you were going to taunt him with in a pained cry that's pure reflex, as he jerks up hard on your hair and then slams your skull down against the floor with enough force that you wonder if you'd know if he cracked your skull. Like, would you hear it? Is that what that sharp click was? Is that why your mouth's suddenly full of blood? 

No, that's 'cause you bit through your tongue. Great. You splutter out a mouthful of blood and feel a twinge of satisfaction as a couple more drops soak into his nice white shirt. That somewhat positive emotion is almost immediately overwhelmed by panic as he slams his free hand down onto your throat. 

Now, you've been choked before. (And had D kinkshame you for the bruises when you came home.) But, like. There is a goddamn difference between when it's somebody you trust to let up when you tap out, and when it's someone you _know_ wants to kill you. 

Screw it, even if you can't actually hit him you still have to try. Better than just letting him fucking kill you, right? 

So you grit your teeth—or try, anyway; something's up with your mouth—do your best to focus on the guy above you, and swing at his head as hard as you can with the fist that he's not got half-pinned. 

It's a lot faster than you expected. Whatever's clasped around the base of your throat, it's not the kind of supression collar you're used to. The purpose is pretty much the same, though—you have time to register that yes, you've still got your speed, and then an unpleasantly familiar kind of pain crashes directly into the bits of your brain that're in charge of, well. Everything.

Somehow you manage to formulate a kind of resigned disgust at the fucker for wiring you up to get shocked before the goddamn electricity puts you out again.

* * *

The second time you're a lil' less shocked to wake up. (Shocked. Ha, ha, you're very fucking funny.) It's not like electricity's gonna kill you—if it was, you'd've been dead back when two of the most powerful mutants in the world decided to have that tussle over Dave. 

Still hurts, though. 

Maybe hurts less this time, since you're coming to on your own terms instead of having your hand stomped on. You groan at the thought of that, rolling onto your side and pushing yourself up with the hand he didn't stomp on. 

Actually. Wait. 

The wall's too fuckin' far away; you have to scoot across the floor a couple feet before you can lean on it. Once you're there, you frown down at your hands, just cradling the right in the left until you're a lil' more sure that it's not gonna put you in extreme pain the moment you move it. 

Then you flex the fingers. Carefully. _Slowly,_ because now that you see the thin metal bands around your wrists you're pretty sure that you know how the collar around your neck works—if you move faster than a standard-issue human should be able to, you get zapped. You're gonna guess that the ones on your wrists connect to the collar; it's how you'd do it. You'd set them to hurt you if they couldn't detect a heartbeat or if they were removed in the wrong way too, so...not gonna do that. Not yet. 

Fuck, you don't like how easy it is to assume that you know how he thinks. Like, you understand why it's easy, but it sucks. All of this sucks so goddamn much. 

You realize that you've been sitting here clenching and unclenching both hands for the past minute or so, and you still can't feel more than trace amounts of soreness. "How fucking long was I out...?" 

"_Two hours, give or take._" 

His voice doesn't really seem to come from anywhere in particular, which means that you've already got a general idea of where the speaker is by the time you're halfway through the instinctive movement of rolling up to your feet. (Look, there ain't a lot of places you can put a speaker in a standard room where it'll hit the main echo points. You've actually done research on this shit.) 

You don't get all the way to your feet—turns out that when you're operating on muscle memory and panic, you go Fast. The collar hits you with a burst of juice halfway up, and shit goes white and time stops existing. 

Not for very long, though, because he's still laughing over the speaker when you blink and find yourself curled on the floor with your cheek stuck to the linoleum. Is the dampness on your face tears or more blood? Eh, doesn't really matter at this point. Can't be worse than pissing yourself, and you're pretty damn sure you just did that too. _Fuck._

"_God, I should'a been filming that—eh, next time._" 

The certainty that there's gonna be a next time makes you want to curl up tighter and die. But you're not gonna do that. Instead, you roll to your stomach, get both hands flat on the floor and push yourself up. Your hand lights up with pain at the stress—yeah, thinking you were even close to okay was wishful thinking, you should'a known better—but you manage to not faceplant in the process of getting to your feet. 

Once you're there, you scan the ceiling, and yep, there it is. Right where you thought it'd be—a smooth black speaker set into the plaster, with a tiny lens and a bright red light that proves that he totally _is_ filming you. 

"Fucker." 

"_Don't make me wash that filthy fuckin' mouth out for you, copycat._" 

"Shit-eatin' son of a whoremonger. Scumbag cockroach fucker. Drink bleach, see if that cleans up that sewer you call a brain—" 

Honestly, if you'd thought about it, you would have realized that of _course_ the collar's got a remote trigger. This jolt's not as strong as the first one, but it still shuts you up and knocks you back to your knees, leaves you panting out sobs and clawing at the damn thing until he makes it stop. 

"_Stubborn bitch._" 

Don't do it. Do not do it, Ambrose. "F-fucking bastard son of a—" 

You hear him exhale sharp and irritated, a sound like a rush of static, and he hits you again. Longer, this time—you're curled on the floor again, chest aching and your hearbeat loud and erratic in your ears when it finally stops. You don't have the energy to even try to get up this time, even if staying down is an admission that he's winning.

Hell, you barely have the energy to breathe...but when you hear the door open, you roll over to glare at him as well as you can. 

Why the fuck does he have scissors.

God, you're not going to like this, are you.

* * *

Roughly half an hour and way too many shocks later, you don't like it. 

"Hell of a lot better," he says, tossing the scissors down and sitting back on his heels to check out what he's done. After a second he reaches down like he thinks you're gonna let him touch your freshly-exposed scalp. 

To be fair, all you can really do about it is growl at him and try to roll to your back as if that's gonna take you out of his reach. You can just barely see his eyes behind his shades, but you see the way he rolls them as he reaches up to stroke Cal's hand where it's draped over his shoulder. "Pussy." 

"Fuck...you." Yeah, you might have a lil' bit of brain damage. Or something. Making your mouth connect with your brain is way harder than it should be. "Bastard." 

"Thought you'd be happy to have one less handle for guys to grab." 

Okay, you can't even make sense of that. What, is this dumbass trying to come across as straight now? You know for sure that ain't right. He's—

He reaches over and digs his fingers into the nape of your neck, ignoring the choked sound you make as he forces you to look up at him. Or no, maybe _ignoring_ is less accurate a word than _enjoying_ would be. Even if his expression stays bored, you recognise the way the corners of his mouth tense a little, you see all _your_ tiny tells in his face. 

"Hit a nerve, huh?" Now he _does_ smile. You don't like that either, but at least he loosens his grip on the back of your neck at the same time. And yes, you do sob in relief. Can't help it. "Fuckin' stupid to keep it that long. What the hell was I thinkin' back then?" 

"Jeff." Fuck, one word and you have to stop to breathe. Then again, one word's all he really needs to pick up on what you mean—he's got the same memories from back then, after all. 

"Fuckin' traitor." He bares his teeth and smacks you with the hand that's not still curled behind your head. It's a halfhearted blow, but since you have no fuckin' ability to dodge or roll away or do anything other than squeeze your eyes shut, it still hurts. "But hey, you don't know about any of that, huh? Missed out on all the fun shit, didn't have to have your bro and your boyfriend ditch you, didn't get _killed_ because some brats decided you're not allowed to discipline your own fucking kid—" 

Okay, it doesn't really matter how fucked up you are at the moment. No way are you letting that statement stand.

"Saw what you did to him." God, you don't want to keep talking. You just want to pass out and be done. "I'd'a killed you too, scumbag." 

His face twists up for barely long enough for you to register it as fury. Then he wipes it blank again, no sign of emotion other than fingers digging into the back of your neck as he grips tight enough that you can't help but groan and struggle to get your hands back there to try and pull him off. 

You can't manage that, of course. Angle's bad—you're still half-pinned, after all—and your motor control's still shot to hell. He doesn't even bother to use his free hand to pin your wrists down, that's how fucking ineffective you are right now. His fingers do dig in a little harder, though, until you gasp and force yourself to stop moving. 

"Holier-than-thou bitch." And _finally_ he lets go of you with a dismissive scoff, wiping his hands on his shirt like touching you is disgusting, then rising to his feet too fast for you to track, the door slamming shut behind him before you get yourself together enough to move at all. 

"Kid-beating motherfucker." Half of you wishes he was still in here to hear that. 

Then again, you don't think you can take another round of shocks or of violence right now. As things stand, you get to let your head thunk back onto the floor (wincing at how different it feels without the cushion of long hair) close your eyes, and take a fucking nap.


	2. Chapter 2

The shock collar ain't active the next time you wake up, which is good because that fucker chooses to get you conscious by tossing a sword down next to you. Thanks to that, you're up on your feet before you get your eyes open; only way you can manage that is to use your speed. 

You freeze up when the realization that you _did_ use your speed hits you. It's a combination of surprise (look, you're still not used to having the collar Hal 'n Dirk put on you be gone, it's only been off since it nearly killed you) and fear (the shock's still coming, it's just set to a tiny delay, it's going to _hurt_) that does it. Before you get over that shit, he flashsteps forward—and of course _now_ is when the truth of that lil' personal trick hits you, only now do you realize that flashstepping is just the word you gave your speed when you were still so deep in denial about what you were—snags the katana from the linoleum where it fell, and retreats to back by the door so he can chuck the damn thing at you again. 

At your _face_, specifically. Point first, if you really wanna get into details. 

Again, you don't think. You just _move_, a step to the side to get yourself out of the blade's trajectory and a step forward to where you can reach the hilt, snatch the damn thing out of the air. 

And just like that, there's a weapon in your hand again. It doesn't take the tension out of your body—if you survive this shit, you don't think you'll be able to relax again for a very long time—but it shifts it somehow. Trades in some of the despair or whatever the fuck for (unfounded) hope, lets you feel just a lil' less helpless. Lets you think you're gonna get out of this. make the fucker pay. 

'course, turning to see that the fucker already has his own katana out 'n ready does put a damper on all that. But hey, even subdued the feeling's an improvement. You are going to win this. You _are_. 

(No, you ain't thinking about how this move fits everything you know about psychological torture. You ain't thinking about how it'd be the easiest fuckin' thing for him to let you think you're gonna take him down, get _so close_ to it, then switch the god damn collar back on and slow you to what might as well be a crawl. You ain't thinking about how there's close to a hundred percent chance you're gonna end up hurt. None of that.) 

"C'mon," you taunt him, backing up a step and then darting that same step forward, careful not to let your dismay at how he doesn't even react to the feint show. "Come at me, bro, kick my fuckin' ass—thought you said I was the copy, right? Said I'm less'n you—_prove_ it, fucker!" 

With that last bit, you dive forward. This time it's not a feint, and he knows it—he's got his sword up quicker'n anyone else could, parrying and shoving you back hard enough that you end up choosing to retreat rather than try to keep attacking. That's probably a mistake; he sure as hell doesn't have any qualms whatsoever about pressing you back with a flurry of blows that you can just _barely_ block. 

_He did this to Dave,_ you keep thinking as you struggle to find an opening that isn't a deadly illusion. _He did this to my fucking kid._

It makes you furious, but it doesn't make you any faster. Doesn't help. 

Nothing you can do helps, and you realize that he's just playing with you a heartbeat before your back hits the wall and his blade flashes down so fast that it might be a beam of light, slicing into your wrist with more precision than anything moving at that speed should be able to have. If you bothered, you could probably identify exactly what anatomical thingamajig he just severed to make everything below the wound go numb and send your katana clattering to the floor, but there's other pressing matters at the moment—starting with the instinct to try and shield your wrist before he can hurt you there any more. 

Not that that's what he goes for. You pull your bad arm up to your chest, cross your good arm over it, and he puts his katana through your throat. 

It's another carefully aimed strike. You immediately can't breathe, there's wet heat covering your chest and soaking down into your jeans in a second flat when he pulls the blade out. If you had another second you'd probably end up bleeding out on the floor, but instead of letting you fall he slams one hand down against your shoulder, holding you up for a moment as you bleed and choke and start to bring your hands up to try to make at least one of those things stop. For a couple seconds he just holds you there, shades just crooked enough to let you see him watching you through what might as well be your own eyes. 

Then he lets go, smacks your hands down and pins the uninjured one against the wall when you don't just let him do what he wants, and puts his katana through your throat again (and at least a couple inches into the wall behind you, going by the crunch) (god you hope that sound wasn't just your vertebrae getting severed. Not that it matters at this point.) You blink, and there's a second sword—the one you dropped—buried in your gut. And yes, it hurts. 

Starting to hurt less, though. 

Shit, that's not good. 

Not much you can do about it now. Pretty much all you can do is close your eyes and think of the people you're never gonna see again.

* * *

...fuck.   
Thtrider?   
Ambrothe, I know you're there.

_(This is a weird dream.)_

It'th not a dream. You're dying.   
Which is why you need to talk to me, fuckshit. KK'th going to be fucking pithed if you get wrecked.

_(Oh yeah. You're dead.)_

You fucking dumbath, are you not lithening?  
Dying. Prethent tenthe. Dead ith patht tenthe.   
If you're thtill alive now, he'th probably not planning on letting you die ye—   
_Thtrider_!

_(He needs to quit yelling. What the fuck? C'mon, you're already dead. Not like there's a point to this shit.)_

How many timeth do I have to tell you you're not dead?

_(That fucker put a sword through your throat. You're dead.)_

Ouch.

_(Yeah, no shit.)_

You're thtill not dead. Idiot.

_(Why do you feel like he's insulting you to try 'n get you to calm down a lil' bit?)_

Becauthe I am? You're half dead, dumbath. Motht people don't take that two well.

_(Yeah, well. You're dead. Hey, maybe he'll take a message for you. Tell Dave you're sorry.)_

I am _not_ doing that, thorry. Well, not thorry. Mothtly jutht interethted in not fucking that inthufferable douchebag up any more than he ith now.   
Bethideth, the whole fucking point of thith ektherthithe ith to get your battered ath back with uth.

_(You don't think he's getting the message here. There is a fucking sword through your fucking throat. You're dead.)_

I don't thpeak with the dead. That'd be AA.   
...fuck, I'm already lothing you.

_(Okay, fine. You were wrong about being dead before, but_ now _you're dying. Simple, when you think about it. The lil' telepathic convo with an alien in a blank and silent void is your shitty version of going towards the light.)_

What the shit are you on? You're jutht about healed enough that you wouldn't be dying if you weren't healing, that'th all.

_(...healing? From_ that_?)_

...huh.   
Thtriderth never fucking talk to each other, do they? Dumbatheth.  
Wait, Thtrider?   
Thtrider?   
Ambrothe? Ambro—

* * *

The shock's not powerful enough to do anything but hurt, this time. Hell, you're not even sure that it counts as pain—current applied to your neck isn't the same as the other shit you can feel, the stinging ache where the first blade went in and the deeper burn lower in your body, just under your ribs, somewhere up inside. 

Fuck. You're honestly terrified of thinking about exactly what's wrong in there. Thankfully, you have more important things to consider right now—breathing, for one. That'd normally not even be a thing you needed to pay attention to, but right now you need to focus your attention on getting enough air in to sustain semi-rational thought...or at least, y'know. Consciousness. 

You're still sucking in painful lungfuls of air (and trying to figure out why the entire fuck you can breathe at all) when he leans over you. Unless your depth perception is off—which is a decent possibility—he's hunkered down beside you, studying your face like he's gonna be quizzed on it later. 

See, you kinda feel like quizzing him on current events yourself. Too bad that all that comes out when you open your mouth is an _amazingly_ painful croak, less like any normal human noise than like a toad gettin' stepped on. Jesus, that's horrible. 

"Cool." His fingers just barely ghost across your throat, just above where the collar hits. The touch is light enough that it doesn't hurt any more than everything else already does. "Guess I hit your vocal cords or some shit—this didn't happen when Deadpool stabbed _me_ like that. Then again, I stayed out for two fuckin' weeks, so..." 

You try to ask how long _you_ were out and instead produce another wordless rasping sound. Shit, but that hurts...pain you could take, but it sucks that you just added more to the already-overwhelming pile of it you're already suffocating under, for no real reason. Then again, he does keep talking once you give up on trying to.

"Wish I'd had just a _lil'_ more info on what happened when I was out, y'know? It'd be nice to do a side-by-side here between me and you—you know your heart stopped for around half an hour?" 

Somehow that doesn't surprise you. What surprises you is that it started again, honestly. You bare your teeth at him when he reaches down to tap the surface of the collar around his neck; when he scoffs that that feeble lil' warning and pulls back, you shape the word _why_ without trying to make a sound. 

He knows what you mean. Of _course_ he knows what you mean; the disbelief in the look he gives you has a completely different source. 

"Fuck, they didn't tell you?" 

It's a rhetorical question, or at least you treat it as one. You glare at him and aim a halfhearted and way-too-slow punch at his chest. 

He catches your wrist in one smooth motion and squeezes until you can't help but whimper. At least it's not the hand he already cut—this shit hurts enough, you don't even want to think about what it'd feel like on the injured one. 

"Stubborn bitch," he grumbles—and where the fuck does he get off being _sulky_ about this shit, like you're the one who insulted him here? what the fuck?—and lets you go. As soon as he does, you pull your newly-bruised wrist up to your chest and roll onto your back, away from him. You'd keep going if he didn't clamp one hand down on your shoulder and force you to roll back to face him. "Nobody fuckin' told you about the healing shit? I _know_ Dirk 'n his weirdass copy know. Maybe not my kid 'n D, but Rox and Reaux's girls. They know." 

Healing shit. 

Healing. 

Oh, _fuck._ Well, at least you now you know where Dave gets it from, and why this fucker's still alive. (And why you're still alive.) 

Too bad it also gives you a decent idea on what he's got planned for you. 

Like he's read your mind, that fucker grins and strokes his fingers across the new scars on your throat again, quick and light and—god, you odn't want to say _gentle_ because that'd imply a lack of intent to hurt, and you _know_ that hurting you is high on his agenda. Teasing, maybe, or taunting. "You know what we're gonna do here, copycat." 

Shaking your head hurts. You do it anyway, not so much as an answer as a denial. You don't _wanna_ know. 

"Yeah, you do. You know how I think." He adjusts his shades, tilts them down so you can meet his eyes, one hand flashing down to grip the back of your neck so you _have_ to meet those fucking orange eyes. "You know what I'm plannin'."

You do. 

"I'm going to kill you, copycat. Gonna keep sending you to hell and watching you come back 'til the devil decides to keep you, and then you know what's gonna happen?" 

God, you wish you didn't. But it's fuckin' _obvious_—it's what you would do if you were him, after all. 

"First you," he tells you, leaning down so you can't fail to see his grin. "First you, then the rest of 'em, then all the other mutants." 

If your voice was working, maybe you'd tell him no. Since it ain't, you do something nearly as futile—you bare your teeth and twist free of his grip on your neck, lunging up at him as well as you can. 

Pointless. Maybe stupid, maybe not, but definitely pointless—he hits you with a stronger jolt of electricity than what he used to wake you up with for that, keeps it going for what seems like and might be an impossibly long time. 

Or maybe it's just long enough to knock you out. You don't know and you probably never will.

* * *

If you were trying to keep track of time, you pretty much give up after that. Not like you can really do a great job of counting the days when you don't know how long you stay unconsious for—you're pretty sure that you stay out longer when he hurts you bad enough that you should have died, but other than that you just don't know. Other than your body you don't have any way to measure shit, and your body sure ain't any kind of reliable source anymore. 

So yeah, time doesn't exist, you're measuring your life by how many times the man you were cloned from tries to end it, you're up to four real tries and either eight or nine sessions that you can't call anything other than torture without lying. That about cover it? 

Yeah, that covers it. 

No, actually it doesn't—you want your pants back. You woke up without them after the second time you not-quite-died (yeah, you know that it probably does count as dying, but if you got better you're damn well not admitting you're kinda a zombie now even if you do feel like one) and somehow that's what you end up thinking about at this point. How pissed you are that he added this bullshit layer of psychological offense into the other shit. Like, does he really think that you're gonna crack because of that? 

Probably. He might not even be wrong. Then again, it might be the sleep deprivation that's got you wondering how many more rounds he's gonna put you through before you get out. Or the blood loss. Or something like that. 

See, as far as you can tell? You only really heal properly when you're unconsious. Until the last round of his god damn playtime (maybe an hour long, featured ten feet of the kind of chain you'd assume was meant to be used to drag vehicles out of weird places. the collar was deactivated but he's uninjured and faster because of it so it didn't make much of a difference) he let you be unconsious for at least long enough to heal enough that you'd be kind of functional. 

You're guessing that's gotten boring for him, because he finished the last session with a fist to the face and shocked you awake again before the blood on the floor started getting tacky, let alone dried. He's probably monitoring you—you remember how you were with documenting shit, which means you understand how fuckin' anal he is about taping everything—but the collar's automated at this point, set to hit you every time your heartbeat or brainwaves or whatever calm enough that you might be falling asleep. 

This might actually kill you. As in, permanently. 

Sounds kind of attractive. Really attractive. Then again, anything's better than lying on your side because your back's too torn up to put pressure on it, staring at the stain halfway up the wall where he killed you the first time. From this angle, it looks like it should mean something. Kinda like how the kids can lay on the roof and pick pictures out of the clouds for hours. You're still not sure if you're just bad at imagining shit like that, or if it's something to do with being a copy of the reality. Like, you don't have any memories of doing that shit with D when the two of you were kids, or with your sisters in the years after you and Roxanne cheated the system to get the four of you together but before y'all went your separate ways, but that don't mean you never did it. 

Well. _You_ didn't do it. 

You close your eyes to get rid of the burning that's been sinking in for the last minute or so of staring. Maybe you forget to open them for a lil' too long, because the collar feeds you another jolt. 

"Fuck!" Okay, that startles you. Does your voice normally sound like that, or is it just the damage that's been done? Whatever it is, you give up on trying to work it out; you slur out a couple more words—no, you're not really aware of what they are; knowing that takes brainpower and you're running pretty damn low on that at the moment—try to roll over and groan as you get reminded why that's a fuckin' horrible idea. Instead of following through on it anyway, you shift your mostly-numb arm out from under the full weight of your body, stretching it out instead. 

As soon as you do that, something heavy(ish) settles in your palm. It's mostly fear that snaps your eyes back open (new stimuli tend to mean he's thought of something new to try and there's no way that's gonna end up being good or even moderately okay) but once you see what the weight _is_, the adreneline starts winding back down again. 

You're just hallucinating, that's all. Hey, maybe this means you're gonna die soon. At least then you'll get to fuckin' _sleep._

" 'ey, sweetheart." You don't really expect that you'll be able to touch the crow that's perched on your hand, but you reach for her anyway, scratching at the ruff of smaller feathers at the base of her neck. She's so soft you have to blink tears out of your eyes. "Lil' darlin'. Ain't you the ones who take people to the afterlife? You my ride, sis?" 

She doesn't answer, of course—not with words, since you're not D. All she does is make a soft burring sound 'n shift all her weight to one leg, using the other foot to reach up and scratch at her head like you've irritated her with your attentions. 

A tiny LED on a band around her foot catches your attention for a second. That seems important for some reason, but you've got the attention span of a lemming right now—as soon as she lowers her foot again, you forget. 

"How the fuck'd he get you in here, if you ain't my psychopomp?" you ask her instead, running your fingers down the long black flight feathers. "I never was all tha' good with animals; kinda doubt he's changed that..." 

The crow squawks and shakes herself, fluffing all the feathers on her body up until she's a ruffled ball of void with two bright eyes peeking out. You know it's stupid to designate human emotions to avian mannerisms, but that's still so obviously a gesture of disgust that you have to laugh. 

...aw, shit. That hurts. Exactly how many of your ribs are at least cracked right now? 

While you're still pondering that lil' puzzle, the crow steps off your hand and struts up to your face, blinking a few times as she looks you over. You stare back at her, wondering if you're about to get your eyes pecked out, and whether you actually give a shit. 

What she does instead of blinding you is to shuffle a step closer and run her beak through your sadly shortened hair a few times. It doesn't hurt, but her beak's bloody when she steps back again, which brings up the question of whether you're still bleeding somewhere up there. You _shouldn't_ be—it's been hours, you're not sure how many but definitely some—but you wouldn't be surprised if you were. 

The crow caws, loud and sharp, getting your fractured attention back onto her. As soon as you're focused, she spreads her wings, hops a few inches straight up, and doesn't come back down. 

Fuck? 

While you're still gaping at the scattering of black down feathers drifting to the stained floor, a hand clamps down on your shoulder and drags you back. You're too stunned to fight for the first second; after that, you're falling.


	3. Chapter 3

"Falling" has a couple of metaphorical meanings that you kinda expect to apply here. Falling asleep, maybe, or some kind of more obscure metaphor about death as a descent. That first one is more plausible—you know the feeling of falling from a high place that comes with not-quite-sleeping sometimes, the instant of vertigo that snaps you awake with your heart racing for no good reason at all. 

But, see. With that, you kind of don't land. 

This time, you do. The hand on your arm drags you back, you fall, everything goes black and then suddenly bright again, and as you squeeze your eyes shut (look, the room you've been in for however fuckin' long wasn't normal-room bright, okay) you hit something with enough give that nothing cracks. Still hurts enough that you bite down and taste blood in your mouth, though. 

"Ambrose—shit—" 

Wait, fuck. _No._ He can't be here. That's Dave, you know your kid's voice even from just two panicked words, and you struggle to push yourself up off the yielding surface you've landed on because you _will_ protect him no matter how much it hurts—

Your airway cuts off near-completely for just enough time for you to panic. This is _new_, you know it's the collar doing it but you don't understand how or why. He already gave strangling you a shot, it fuckin' sucked but it wasn't any more permanent than any of the other ways he's tried to kill you—is that the point? Just hurting you? It's the point of everything else, of course it's the point— 

All of this goes through your mind in the time it takes you to start the motion of reaching up to claw at the tightness around your throat. Then something _crunches_ and it's just. It's gone. 

Dave yelps in what sounds like pain. You don't really have time to react to that either, other than the obvious spike of anger and fear at him being hurt; before you can finish blinking your eyes clear of reflexive tears and blurriness he's in front of you, hands on your shoulders and holding you back to look you over for maybe a second before you groan and hook one arm around his neck to drag him close enough that he's gonna have to either let you hug him or shove you away. 

He goes with option A. Kind of—you didn't really expect him to hug you back. "Ah, fuck, kid, easy—" 

"Shit, sorry—" _Now_ he shoves you away, but you did kind of ask for it. Dave gives you a once-over that's quick enough that you know he's gotta be bending time, grabbing for your arm when your body decides it's had enough of being vertical for right now and you almost collapse. "God, he fucked you up—" 

"No shit." Dammit. You were hoping that lil' jolt of adreneline from freefall would be enough to keep you awake for at least a couple minutes longer, but no—your head's already spinning, ready to try to tip you out of consciousness again. "How—" 

Before you get the rest of that question out, a black bird puffs into existence on Dave's shoulder. 

Oh yeah. Neet can do that, huh? That...explains some things. 

When did you get all the way horizontal, exactly? 

"Hey." Dave either leans down enough to bring his face into your line of sight, or kneels down on the floor beside the bed that you're apparently on. Either way, you get a view of his expression, a thin wash of self-control over something strong enough that you just want to pull him in and hold him until he can tell you how to fix it. "You're gonna pass out?" 

"For a sec—the collar—" 

He holds up a twisted piece of black plastic and wires. You don't get what it is until you see the sparks arcing between a couple of the exposed ends. "Bro, you thought I'd leave that shit on you?" 

"Wha—" How the _fuck_ did he do that? How? 

While you're trying to figure out how Dave managed that without shocking you (and/or himself) you have to blink. Doesn't go exactly to plan; somewhere between closing your eyes and trying to open them you realize that you're half-asleep already, and not too likely to reverse course.

* * *

You have a long string of very fucking weird dreams, which results in your not really realizing what's happened when you finally wake up. To be fair, though, having two aliens and one guy you haven't seen in _years_ watching you is something that seems like it'd belong in a dream more'n anywhere else. 

"Wha—" Oh, shit. Your mouth's full of...something. Something liquid-ish; going by how it looks on your chest and the sheet pulled up to your waist, you're guessing it's soup. Was soup. Whatever. Anyway, that changes your planned question from _what happened to Dave_ to something a lil' more to the point. "Hey, what the _fuck_?" 

"Is he actually awvake this time?" Cronus tips his head to one side, finned ears spreading a lil' wider in obvious interest as he glances over at Kurloz. (Why he's this interested in your battered ass, you have no fuckin' clue.) 

Because he's looking at Kurloz, _you_ look at Kurloz, and groan at the sight of the bright violet light fading out of his eyes. That explains some of the dreams, anyway. "Who said you could get in my head, kiddo?" 

**Your bros.**

"That's—yeah, okay, fine. Get outta there now." You flip one hand at him in as dismissive a gesture as you can manage. Then you remember what's happened to that hand in the last couple days (or whatever) and instantly get distracted from dealing with the presence of the only other human in the room in favor of looking down at yourself. 

There's more scars than the last time you looked in a mirror. Like. A _lot_ more, some of them healed to the point where they've started fading into the patchwork of bruises. Shit, there's more bruises than you expected. Now why the fuck did almost all the cuts heal already and the bruises not? Wait, no, you can form a decent hypothesis for that question—energy. Or lack of it. That fucker didn't bother feeding you. 

You look up from your contemplation of your own beat-up self and do the grabby-hands thing at Jeff fucking Egbert, who still hasn't grown out of wearing his goddamn hat literally everywhere and whose presence you don't intend to question until you have to. "Food?" 

"Good to see you're feeling better," he comments dryly, handing the bowl of soup over without a hint of argument. No argument, but his hands are still there when you fumble and nearly tip the shit into your lap. "Careful, Ambrose." 

Okay, it's not fair to add a lil' twinge of heartache at hearing your name from one of the only people who's always used it to the pile of actual physical pain you're still in. Since you still suck at reacting properly to emotional stimuli, you just roll your eyes at him and settle the bowl a lil' more safely in your lap. "If you wanna make a point, you really oughta let me drop it. Just sayin'." 

"Would I do that to you?" He knows _exactly_ what he's doing to you. You can see him think about tacking your name onto that sentence too, and deciding against it. 

"Nah." You shouldn't interrupt yourself with a mouthful of soup, but you still do it. "It'd still make a damn effective point."

"I'm not interested in—" 

**And you say _our_ flirting is weird.**

Your mouth is full of soup again; snapping back at Kurloz and risking losing any part of the food is absolutely out of the question. Glaring at him doesn't even come close to doing the job, either; he just rakes thick black hair back from his face with one hand, giving you one of those wide, unsettling smiles that stress the scars around his lips and don't show his teeth. 

"That ain't flirting, chief." Cronus rolls his eyes and tips the chair he's in back onto two legs, ignoring the disgusted look Kurloz gives him. "Humans are just vweird." 

**You're not the one who was all up in his motherfucking dreams, so I feel like I'm a lil' more in the know than you are here, fish.**

"Oh my god." You groan and slap one hand over your face, vaguely aware that Egbert's snatched the spoon out of your hand on the way up before you have a chance to smack yourself in the forehead with it. "Why the fuck are you here? Any of you?" 

"I vwas bored." 

**I was helping.**

"This is my _house._" 

Okay, cool, that brings up more questions than it resolves. "Why the fuck am I _here_, then?" There's maybe three spoonfuls of soup left in the bowl. You're not sure where the rest of it went, but you intend to make the rest of it disappear as well, preferably before Jeff finishes answering your question.

"D's house isn't available right now." 

God fucking dammit, that's the extent of his explanation and you still have two spoonfuls left. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" 

Cronus chuckles, tipping his chair back another couple degrees. "New drinking game—take a shot evwery time he starts with "wvhat/wvhy the fuck'—" 

"You're like seventeen, shut the hell up. Jeff. What've they got going there that I'm here?" 

He knows you're not gonna stop without an answer—you know he does, you always could read him like a book. The way he looks at you for just a second before his eyes flick up and to the right, how he bites at the inside of his cheek as he thinks about what he needs to say—his tells haven't changed, and he still hasn't started covering them up like you 'n your siblings do. Hell, maybe he isn't even aware of them—you don't think most people are. Then again, you wouldn't know most people well enough to say for sure that they're seriously considering lying to you for your own good. 

"Don't you dare," you warn him as he opens his mouth. "You tell me the _truth_, dammit—" 

You don't realize that you've set the bowl down in your lap to free up your hands so you can reach up and pull your hair back into a ponytail until your palms graze the prickly almost-buzzcut that's all he's left you with. Something about getting reminded of that lil' humiliation _now_, when all you're doing is grasping for a stupid comforting habit to take down your frustration a couple notches—something about that pulls a knot tight in your chest. Shit fuckin' _sucks._

Over in the corner he's chosen to lurk in, Kurloz's eyes widen and flicker violet. You don't even think about it—you scroop the spoon out of the almost-empty bowl and chuck it at him, missing by a mile. 

"Don't." 

**Lil' bro told me to make sure you stayed put,** he points out, reasonably enough. 

"Yeah, well, I'mma 'bout to _not fucking do that_ unless somebody starts giving me some god damn _answers_!" 

All three of them stare at you. Kurloz blinks. Cronus's earfins are pressed back, all the way flat agains his head. Fuck, you were yelling, huh? 

You should probably apologize. But. "...look. I'm havin' a rough day, alright?" 

"Closer to a rough week, technically." 

"Seriously?" When Jeff nods, you groan and scowl down at the bowl in your lap like you're gonna see something helpful in the soup residue. "I've had about enough of this shit." 

"We can tell." 

"Wanna go _home._" Do you sound like a tired kid? Yeah, probably. Do you care? At this point...no. Not even a lil' bit. 

"Let them finish negotiating and D or the boys will come pick you up." 

"...negotiating." The sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach says you're not gonna like the answer to your next question. "With who?" 

Jeff has his mouth open to give you a nice evasive answer to that one, but Cronus beats him to the punch. "Those cats that get baby Vwantas all riled up ewvery time he talks about them," he says, finally bringing all four feet of the chair safely down to the floor again. 

You process what he said for a second, cross-check it against who's the most likely to piss Karkat off (translation: who fucks Dave up, probably) and come up with a likely suspect. Well, two suspects. "Xavier 'n Magneto?" When Jeff and Kurloz nod, you're left at least a lil' more confused than before. "For what?" 

"Tryin' to see wvho gets the guy wvho isn't you," Cronus says, ducking Kurloz's attempt to slap a hand over his mouth in a motion so smooth you know it's gotta be pure muscle memory at this point. "Wvould you quit that, maybe? Jeez." 

You process _that._

_Fuck._ That scumbag ain't dead—for whatever reason, D 'n the kids 'n Wade, they didn't kill him. He's alive, they've got him at the house and there's no way it's safe. However they have him locked down ain't good enough, you know it's not—the manipulative bastard's gonna— 

"_Strider._" 

Like it always is on those rare occasions that he uses it, Kurloz's voice is soft and rough and has the odd quality of focussing all attention on him. That one word's enough to stop you cold, aware that you're on your feet and that you _should_ be moving, but caught up in staring at the troll kid instead. 

He blinks, and his eyes flood with purple. You feel him snatch the puppetstrings of free will away from your consciousness; your own stubborness gives you enough time to snarl at him in your head, try to threaten the kid into backing off. 

Doesn't work. Kurloz raises two fingers in what you assume is a peace sign, incongrous as that is, until he brings them together in an obvious cutting motion. You manage to fight off the dark violet tide of unconsiousness just long enough to see Jeff knock his goddamn chair over getting out of it, trying to grab you before you hit the floor. 

Whether he makes it is anybody's guess—you're gone.

* * *

There's a lot of shit you don't remember, and it ain't just because Kurloz keeps you under. If you're being honest, he probably gets the fuck out of your head right after he knocks you out—you don't get any of those odd, vivid dreams that edge right up to the line that'd make them nightmares this time around. Don't really dream at all, really, unless the strong sense of Sollux being with you in the dark counts. 

That's kinda concerning, since he seems to only be able to talk to you like this when you're just about dead. You do a lil' thinking on that in the windows of time when you're lucid enough to think at all, and end up deciding you're too tired to worry. 

Or maybe you do worry. Like you said, literally everything's being stored in extreme short-term memory right now—you wake up most of the way for one reason or another, recognise that people are in the room with you (who it is varies: D, the twins, Reaux one time and Kankri another, Dave and Karkat crammed into the same chair) fall asleep again, and forget. 

Maybe he hurt you worse'n you thought. It's the best explanation you can think of for this whole state of affairs, and you guess that if you're upright 'n functional at the end you can just deal with not remembering anything. 

...okay, you're lying about that last bit. Being okay with not remembering. You open your eyes somewhere that feels halfway through the cycle of sleeping and not-quite being awake, and immediately decide that you have to stay coherent for at least a lil' while. And that you will fucking remember what you say. 

Jeff doesn't agree with most of that. He looks up from the book he's working on—something hardcover. with color-coded postit notes sticking out of the part he's already been through in at least a dozen places—sees that you're not decently passed out, and gives you one of those looks of stern disapproval that he's been practicing for...god, you can't do math right now but it's gotta be over a decade. 

"You're supposed to be asleep." 

"Nah." Ah, shit, you're not so sure how long you can keep this up. Even if it don't hurt as bad as it did, everything in your body wants to pull you back under. "Y'know who I am?" 

He blinks at you, brows rising slightly over warm brown eyes. God, part of your mind convinced the rest that your memory about him was faulty—that John looked more like his dad than he actually does, that his hair would be a few shades lighter than pure black, have that curl that leaves the kid swearing under his breath whenever he tries to brush it out or smooth it down. That his face'd be rounder, closer to his kid's instead of the sharpness you see in your mind's eye. But no, your memory's perfectly fuckin' accurate, Jeff's still as you remember, and it feels...

Goddamnit why do you have to have feelings _now._ You are in no way up for this shit at fucking all. Maybe you _should_ go back to sleep...

"Ambrose." 

"What?" 

He rolls his eyes and adds another sticky note to the page he's on, closing the book. "Ambrose Strider? John used to call you _puppet daddy_ when he started talking. We went on a date that ended with your sister offering to pierce my ears after she did your septum—" 

Holy shit, you didn't need to remember either of those things right now. Your face is so hot it hurts; you groan and roll onto your back, mentally bracing for the pain that's gonna come from putting pressure on bruises. That doesn't come, and you feel a shit ton of tension go out of you as you pull your arm up to cover as much of your face as you can. It doesn't really feel like enough, but at least you can't see him now, which means you can try and figure out where you're going with this shit. 

Oh, yeah. "You know 'm not him." 

"Oh. This is about cloning." You hear him sigh, hear the rustle of movement and the soft thud of the book being set down, and a second later his hand touches your face. It might be how much cooler his skin is than yours that makes you shudder. Yeah, that's gotta be it. "Are you saying you think I'd prefer the other one?" 

"_Please_ no." 

"I don't think anyone in their right mind would prefer him; your position is safe." 

"Mm. 'm not him." 

"Which him?" 

"The one you think I am." 

"...interesting." 

"What?" 

Jeff's hand leaves your face and closes around your wrist instead; you think about being stubborn here and refusing to let him pull your arm down, but what's the point? And anyway, being able to study his face once your line of sight's clear again is worth cooperating. 

He considers you for at least a couple seconds, still loosely gripping your wrist. You hold still so he doesn't remember that he's touching you. Finally, he shakes his head. "Funny." 

"_What's_ funny?" 

"Speed mutation, healing mutation, _and_ a mind reader. What's the word David would use for this...oh yes, _OP._" 

For fuck's sake. "Aw, screw you." You don't put any speed or force into your attempt to swat him with the hand he's not touching; he catches that wrist with his free hand way before it connects and leans over you to pin you down. You gotta smile. "Alright, alright, so you know what's goin' on." 

"_I'm_ not the one who's been unconscious for days, so yes. Yes I do." 

Damn. "Days?" 

"Almost four." 

"_Damn._" 

"You're not missing anything, don't worry." Jeff leans back again, but he doesn't take his hands off your wrists. (_Nice._) "Well, not much." 

"Miss my goddamn kid," you point out. 

"He's fine." 

"Not with he's anywhere 'round that bastard, he ain't." 

"Give your brother more credit than that. He's at Reaux's. With Karkat." 

"And the twins?" 

Jeff's nose wrinkles up a tiny bit; he doesn't approve of the info he's about to deliver. "With D and Wade." 

"God fucking dammit—" 

"Do you think _you_ can convince them that it's not the best place for them to be?" 

"I can't convince those stubborn brats of _anything_. Too much Strider in 'em." 

"Like there's any such thing." 

There's those pesky feelings again. At least they're a lil' more positive this time. "You still got a soft spot for us, huh?" 

"You left an impression, Ambrose." And he smiles, and leans down in to press a kiss to your forehead like you remember him doing for John as a toddler. Goodnight kiss. "Go back to sleep. You're not done healing." 

"But—" 

"Everyone's fine." 

"But I—" 

"Ambrose, go the fuck to sleep." 

Oh shit. If he's swearing at you (even if he's doing it with the ghost of an exasperated smile) he's serious. You huff and roll back to your side to keep him where you'll see him when you wake up again, and close your eyes.

* * *

You know you're pretty much okay again when you find yourself dozing instead of staying deep in the dark. Still, you ain't quite ready to rejoin society at large yet, especially when you don't think anyone's here with you—it's easier to just relax for a lil' while. Not like you're needed right now. Nothing's urgent. 

Well, nothing's urgent until something suddenly is. You're only half-awake and you have no clue what it is—you hear something that clicks into a slot in your head that you didn't know was there, and dread spikes in your chest, huge and red and terrifying. You don't have any sense of coming all the way awake or of moving—it's a fucking instant transition from _sprawled out on the bed_ to _on your feet, still half-wrapped in the blanket with your back pressed against the wall._

Dave stares at you for a couple seconds, eyes flicking between your face and your hands. (After a moment you realize you've got your fists up in defense; you can't quite remember how to lower them.) Then he looks back over his shoulder, at the door he just came through, and steps over to set the shoebox he's holding down on the bed. "...shit." 

"Shit," you echo. It's a pretty fair reading of your own sentiments, honestly. "Dave—" 

The plan is to apologize—you know you had to move too fast for his comfort there. But your voice cracks on the one word, and your legs go weak enough that you have to just lean back against the wall and let yourself slide down it. Would this be adrenaline, or just the effects of being in bed for too fuckin' long? Either way, you don't really have any control over it. 

"Bro, hey." You only realize you lost track of Dave when he crouches down on the floor in front of you. "You good?" 

"Kid, does it _look_ like I'm—like I'm good?" 

"Nah, but I figured I'd ask." He shrugs and sits back on his heels. "So do you want me to give you a minute, or do you want me to try and distract you from it?" 

"Not really sure what you're plannin' on distracting me from." Shit, you just realized that you _still_ don't have pants. What the fuck's wrong with all the conscious people around here? Eh, at least the blanket from the bed's still wound around you enough that you've got a shred of dignity left. 

Dave stifles a laugh when you grab for the blanket and pull the edges up around your shoulders. It's a good sound, even if it's pretty much at your expense. It's a pretty damn safe sound, too, and it helps more than it maybe should. He can tell it helps, too; you see the way he relaxes along with you, waiting until you're a lil' less edgy to dig in his pocket and find a lil' box. 

You're probably supposed to take that, you realize as he holds it out to you. But you _really_ don't wanna let go of the blanket. "Uh..." 

Maybe Dave gets your dilemma. Either that or he just knows how to tip the balance of it, because he flips the lid of the box open. You see the little titanium studs inside and know _exactly_ what they are. 

Dave laughs again when you drop the blanket and grab for the box, not even trying to hide it this time. "See, I knew you were gonna want those." 

"Holy _shit._" Roxanne's earrings. You didn't think you were ever gonna get them back, not really. 

"You're probably gonna have to get your ears repierced before you—dude, oh my god." 

Yeah, you're not waiting to do that. It's a lil' bit difficult to fumble one of the studs out of the box, but you manage it even though you're giving Dave a look warning him to not try 'n stop you the whole time. Not that he seems too interested in trying—he just shakes his head and lets you raise the earring up to your ear and try to jam the damn thing through. 

It goes in smoothly, like it hasn't been at least six years since you've had anything in the holes. You have to pull your hand down and stare at it to make sure that you didn't just block out the pain of stabbing a new hole in your ear. 

Then you pull the other earring out of the box and give Dave a shiteating grin while you put it in. He just rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, offering you a hand up once you've got the stud in. 

"Nah, I think I'll stay down here 'til I get a chance to put on some fuckin' pants." 

"Oh yeah, that's fair. Here." You don't actually _see_ him move to the bed to grab the box he left there, but you blink and he's got it in his hands. Damn, he's good with his powers. "Just—don't open it while I'm in here, okay?" 

"What—" Oh. Oh shit. The weight's right, the size is right, Dave already gave you the earrings that were pinned to him last time you saw them— "Oh god. _Cal._ Cal?" 

"Cal," Dave confirms. 

"_Shit._" Not opening the box is _really fucking hard,_ but you manage to subsume the desire by hugging it to your chest instead, tight enough that the corners bite into your skin and you feel the cardboard deform a lil' bit. "I—fuck, Dave, he's—" 

"Yeah, man, I know." Dave's hand comes down on the top of your head, patting you like a puppy. "Call it compensation for not figuring out how to get you back sooner." 

"I don't c—don't care about that, just—" For fuck's sake, are you gonna cry? Yeah, you're gonna cry, but first you're gonna set the box aside—carefully—and reach pretty much blindly for your kid. "C'mere." 

"I got you, don't worry." And he does—almost before you finish asking for it, Dave's on his knees and wrapping his arms around your bare shoulders. "It's okay." 

And yeah. It's okay. It'll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to point out any typos lmao. i did proofread but i was having a breakdown at the time so it might have been a lil sketchy!


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